


Debrief

by epersonae



Series: The Magcretia Chronicles [15]
Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: F/M, Masturbation, Past Relationship(s), Pining, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rockport Limited, Stolen Century Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-11
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2019-05-05 13:09:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14619246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epersonae/pseuds/epersonae
Summary: It was the first time she'd seen him strip in a decade. No wonder it gave her ideas.





	Debrief

**Author's Note:**

> Set immediately after the boys leave the Director's office to head to Rockport. Like IMMEDIATELY.

This is a mess. This whole damn situation is a mess. Everything about the boys is a damn mess. 

Her heart is a mess. 

Lucretia sags back in her chair. Ten years, since she's seen Magnus Burnsides do that thing, which apparently he still does—she hasn't taken that away from him. That thing being changing clothes in front of everyone, stripping without a thought.  _ What's the big deal,  _ he'd said the first time, after Davenport sputtered to a halt in the middle of a briefing. 

They'd all gotten used to it, and even when they were at their most heated, Magnus doing  _ that  _ was just… The way things were. Nothing to get worked up about. 

She supposes it was that memory which had carried her through all that absurdity. 

And yet. 

Magnus had been in amazing physical condition when they boarded the Starblaster, and for a hundred years he was young and buff and gorgeous. Now it's been ten years, and he's still just…stacked. But it's from using his body, out there in the world, from carpentry and then fighting, ten years of use and action. 

She closes her eyes, seeing scars: wounds a cleric hadn't caught in time, from swords and arrows and knives and saws. A burn, maybe? More than there should be, more than she would've imagined. And tattoos. He always wanted tattoos; there was a stretch where they all did that every cycle. The wildest ideas you could think of, but they'd all be gone soon enough. 

He has them now permanently. Not enough time to see what exactly. Something with flowers and a hammer? Some sort of sea monster? 

When she tries to visualize them, she realizes what she really wants is to touch. To touch his warm skin for the first time in ten years and know every scratch and drop of ink. To feel him flex under her fingertips and then he'd laugh, like he used to do, and lift her up…. 

Lucretia grits her teeth. Ten years without, and no, not all of it alone, but without Magnus, the way he could just…. And he's stronger now, she can imagine running a hand over that big chest, winding an arm around his neck, and kissing him with his big arms pulling her close. A huff of a sigh escapes her. He looks different, and maybe that was a shock at first but now it’s—it’s intriguing, she’s curious about someone whose body she once knew by heart.

What if—what if he’d been there and the others  _ hadn’t _ been for whatever reason—who needs a reason? What if he’d been like that, stripping off all his clothes, in her office, for her? She pulls the skirts of her robes up over her legs, imagining him standing there among all her books, on the other side of her desk, his hands resting on his thighs. His hands, calloused from sword and axe, hammer and saw; she rests her hands (calloused from writing and the rough surface of her staff) on her own thighs and imagines standing, stepping in front of him, her hands on his hips. A bit of fat over the muscle now as she pulls his hips to hers. 

Would he put his hands on the small of her back? Would he lift her—please, would he lift her the way he used to, but onto this desk, the edifice she hides behind? Would she finally see the familiar sly grin, the one she knew for so many years, on a face a decade older? (Imagine, then, his mind back, his memories back, imagine they're reconciled. All else is folly and pain.) 

His hands would part her thighs, gently, easily; her legs fall open in a pale imitation. With a rough sigh she shoves a hand into her panties, still thinking of his hands on her, and she finds she’s dripping wet. Two fingers inside, two fingers of her other hand rubbing her clit. But her own fingers inside her aren’t enough, not when she’s thinking of his hands, his hands on her thighs and hips, his fingers inside her. In a moment of ingenuity crossed with desperation, she casts Mage Hand, and fills herself with the vaguely tingling sensation of arcane energy. Not remotely close, but it lets her imagination roam a little more easily.

She’d beg him, plead with him to just fuck her already, her dignity lost and forgotten at the sight of him. And he’d tease, or he’d try to at least, tell her to take it slow, his hands running up and down the tops of her thighs, but the dark look in his eyes would give him away, that look and the twitching of his dick. Her smile turns to a groan as she fucks herself, imagining her legs wrapped around him, her hands gripping his shoulders, feeling the muscles ripple under her fingers as he moves with her.

She sucks in a deep breath as she imagines, remembers, wishes for the feeling of him breaching her, slowly, too slowly, the way his brows would knit in want and concern, but now one eyebrow crossed by a long scar. She’d touch it, of course she would touch his face, gently, her lust tempered still by love. Her hand would be on his cheek, and she’d cry out at the slow drag of him inside her. Her hips would snap to meet his — and in her office chair her hips buck up to her hand on her clit, the mage hand in her cunt, and it’s not him, she doesn’t know if it ever will be, but for the moment her mind fills in the details, and her body carries her forward with these fragments: his broad chest, his big arms, the movement of the muscles in his thighs. 

And the fantasy dissolves into the urgency of her whispering his name, biting her lip and gritting her teeth to keep from shouting it loud enough to wake the whole base. She's flushed and shaking: just a little more, just a little further, and the memories of a hundred years merge with the image of him naked in this room, her fingers tight against her clit, more, just a little more, until she comes abruptly, hard against her hand and her own magic. She's biting back his name on her lips and it all tumbles out, the lust that's been sleeping in her heart these ten years, her heart pounds in her throat as waves of orgasm sweep through her. 

Lucretia slumps down in her chair in her empty office in the middle of the night, and then with a sigh she wipes her hands on her thighs, pulls down her robes. 

“So that's a thing,” she says aloud. Her chuckle is wry but with a nervous edge to it. In front of her is an open notebook with her pen laid across it. 

_ Sent the boys to retrieve whatever it was that Leeman found _ , she writes.  _ Briefing and departure was uneventful. _

She stands, brushing imaginary dust from her robes with still slightly sticky fingers, and closes the book. Enough of that, time for sleep, she thinks. If she can find it. 

**Author's Note:**

> This is all @hops's fault, including the realization that this is the fic incarnation of the long-standing magcretia discord "when will Magnus Burnsides etc etc". So THANKS I GUESS.


End file.
